


Gravedigger

by pornographicrainbowlegs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pornographicrainbowlegs/pseuds/pornographicrainbowlegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I guess that’s what I do. Let down the only people I love. I let dad down. And now I guess I’m just supposed to let you down too.  How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do, Sammy? God. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do!”</p><p>AU of Dean's reaction to Sam's death in All Hell Breaks Loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravedigger

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
> Warning!  
>   
> 
> There is death/suicide in this fic, please do not read if this will upset you.

The rain is trickling down, soaking the soil deep with wet and sop. It makes the earth very heavy on Dean’s shovel as he moves the dirt, dumping it next to the decent sized pit. His shoulders burn, his hands blister. Many blisters have already popped, leaking blood and mixing with the rain. His shovel is slippery, and he probably should have gotten gloves hours ago.

He curses the sky for opening up on him. His clothes are saturated with a mix of sweat and the rain. His boots slosh and slip and stick in the muck as he lifts his boots to step on the shovel to excavate another load of dirt. The moon is rising behind him, but he can’t tell through the clouds. It is uncomfortable to say the least, but it’s a distraction he welcomes. The monotony is awful. It gives his mind far too much freedom to wander. But the pain from the blisters on his hands and the sopping mess his boots have become ground him.

He is numb.

The numbness hides the hunger and the thirst. It hides the fatigue. Everything is gone but the throbbing in his hands where the blisters have ruptured. He’s only drive is that the faster he finishes his task, the faster he won’t need the numbness to disguise the hole in his heart.

_“I guess that’s what I do. Let down the only people I love. I let dad down. And now I guess I’m just supposed to let you down too. How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do, Sammy? God. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do!”_

His speech to Sam’s prone, lifeless body was hours ago now. He left Sam, needed to get away for a minute, couldn’t keep looking at Sam who didn’t look asleep at all. He knows dead bodies don’t look like they are sleeping. He’s encountered more than his share of bodies in his life to know that their eyes are too sallow, and the stillness too permanent. Though, up until now, he was able to compartmentalize them. Perhaps the job, the excitement, was distraction enough. Perhaps the need to get over it or he’ll join them was the push he needed. He might have been able to pretend those were possible before Sam’s body was displayed on the dingy mattress. No, the only reason he could deal with those bodies was because they weren’t Sam.

Outside, the screen door slammed against the cabin, rattling the wall, shaking loose a shovel that had leaned against the siding. It fell, landing with a bang against the porch floor, just inches from Dean’s boots. The sound was deafening and halted Dean’s thoughts; somehow, forcing him to zero in on the only option he had left to him now.

He stared at it for a long while. It was innocently waiting for him to pick it up. And when he did, he didn’t put it down. Not when the rain started, not when the sun went down, not when his surroundings were so pitch dark he couldn’t tell how deep the pit was getting.

He’s not sure what made him stop at all. If it were the pain, he’d have stopped hours ago. If it were the hunger, he wouldn’t have started at all.

But now as the rain starts leaking fat drops in a thunderous downpour, Dean’s body determines it is enough.

He hoists himself from the pit. The darkened sky above and no electricity in the cabin provide dismal conditions to inspect his work, so he doesn’t. He wipes his brow with the back of his arm, tosses the shovel aside, and walks back into the cabin. His arms feel like jelly, his legs twitching like he’d ran a marathon.

His first stop is to gather the can of gasoline and container of salt. He slips his gun into his waistband before resolving himself. Then, he gathers his brother.

His feet drag against the wood floor. He halts at the archway, looking at Sam. There is no light but for the lightning outside. His eyes have adjusted long ago to the dimness. Sam hasn’t moved. Even in the faint light and brilliant flashes, he still feels crushed at the realization that Sam is really, truly gone.

He’s too exhausted to feel much besides a dull throb of his empty heart for his brother before continuing into the room.

He gathers Sam up, tosses his brother over his shoulder. It protests angrily, throwing searing pain through the knots that developed over the evenings shoveling. He ignores it, the day is almost over. His task is almost complete.

With each stride walking from the house, he feels the weight slowly lifting from his shoulders. Not Sam, of course. Decomposition did not set in that quickly. But the weight of his decision. The path forward is only a match away.

He lowers Sam into the pit and jumps in behind. He adjusts Sam’s position as best he can with his body protesting louder as the end is coming nearer. The water at the bottom of the grave has started to pool. He hopes the gasoline will still ignite. Only one way to find out, he decides as he douses them both with the whole can.

No need to be stingy.

The salt is liberally sprinkled, dusting Sam’s hair and making Dean’s skin feel gritty and tight.

He takes a deep breath. The numbness of busying himself in the task at hand is fading. He pulls his Zippo from his pocket and flicks it open. The flame is bright through the rain. In the pit, he’s protected by the wind. But he pulls a book of matches and lights that too, just in case.

He pulls the gun from his waistband.

The weight feels solid in his hands. He contemplates eating the bullet versus through the heart versus through the temple before deciding if he doesn’t choose now he’ll lose his nerve. He cocks the hammer. He doesn’t remember pulling the trigger, or where he decided to aim.

The grave ignites a proper hunter’s funeral.

 _Gravedigger_  
 _When you dig my grave_  
 _Could you make it shallow_  
 _So that I can feel the rain_  
\- [Gravedigger, Dave Matthews](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7wSefU2H9Q&feature=kp)

**Author's Note:**

> If it makes the fic any less painful, I had head canon that Dean was going to wake up in the Fourth of July fireworks field with Sam. I didn't write that part because I'm a heartless bastard.
> 
> Say hi to me on [tumblr](http://pornographicrainbowlegs.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
